


Grief

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Bad headspace, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Nightmares, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Slight dub-con situations due to intoxication, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, loss of a loved one, psychological journey, the character death is sam winchester and it happens right before the start of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grief wraps around people, takes them to a place they would not go otherwise.”<br/>― Patti Callahan Henry, Between The Tides </p><p>With Sam gone, Dean and Cas are left to mourn him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Losing Sammy

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this is not a happy story, but it may be cathartic. Tissues might be required. Read at your own discretion.

 

 

           The sky was gray, heavy with dark clouds that rolled over the mountains and into the valley, bringing a cold wind with them.  The sun had just dipped below the horizon, but the city lights were already flickering on, obscuring the natural darkness.  Dean shivered, but he didn’t really feel the cold.  Didn’t really feel anything at all anymore.  His hadn’t cried since the night it happened, and a gaping emptiness filled him now.  He didn’t give a damn, though.  He was ready to let it swallow him whole if it meant the pain would stop.

            The only person Dean gave a damn about was gone.  Sam was gone.          

            Dean didn’t normally wear suits, but he was dressed in one now—black slacks and jacket, white shirt, and subdued green tie.  He cut the perfect picture against the drab skyline, the epitome of mourning.  His outward appearance was a lie, though; inside Dean was a swirling abyss of rage and grief, and he wished that everyone else could see that, too.  He wished that they could see what a fucking mess he really was.  He didn’t want to fit into this scene—he didn’t want anything to do with it.  It was monstrous, it was wrong.  It wasn’t supposed to be happening.

            Throughout the service, Dean had kept his gaze focused on the closed casket where his baby brother lay—he hadn’t paid any attention to the other mourners because he didn’t care about them.  None of them mattered to him.  They could all go to Hell as far as Dean cared, and he almost said that to a couple of them when they tried to offer their condolences. 

            Dean sort of wished he could go to Hell—he figured it had to be less excruciating than feeling the loss of his brother.

            There was a deepening, deadpan feeling in Dean’s soul, or his heart, or wherever it was that could hurt so fucking bad.  He knew that very soon, he was gonna lose control, snap.  Hell, he was barely holding on now.  The angry voice in the back of Dean’s mind sort of hoped that he crashed and burned—it was what he fucking deserved.  He was the one who deserved to be down there in the cold, hard ground—not Sammy.

            Well, maybe Dean would join him.  Yeah, maybe sooner rather than later.  What was the point of living now?  Life was nothing without Sammy.  Dean was nothing without his brother.

            Dean was vaguely aware of the soft sobs of mourners fading into the distance and the roar and hum of car engines revving before they pulled out of the cemetery lot.  Dean didn’t move from his spot, though.  Slowly, the cold seeped through the fabric of his suit and into his body.  It was so cold it almost hurt.  Good.  It wasn’t enough, though.  Dean wanted it to numb him, but there were other ways to accomplish that feeling, if the wind wasn’t obliging enough.

            The whole cemetery was silent now, and Dean figured that he was alone, but he wasn’t ready to leave yet.  He knew that as soon as he left, the diggers would come back and do their job, and then…. They’d blind Sam, block him out forever, put him in a place where Dean could no longer reach him.  And Dean figured that he had better be gone and very drunk by the time that happened, or he would truly lose his mind.

            Suddenly, light footsteps broke the silence—just the light shuffle of feet on the bright, fresh, green grass.  The sound was jarring, but not unexpected.  Dean didn’t bother to turn around—he didn’t really care who it was, though he had a pretty good idea of who he’d find if he looked.  The steps stopped just behind him.       

            Dean continued to stare at the grave for a long time before finally turning to see who remained.  Cas stood there in his own suit and rumpled trench coat, head slightly bowed as he also stared at the grave.  His hands hung limply from where they were shoved in his pockets, his wrists bent in a careless, destroyed manner.  His face was impassive, as usual—Cas wasn’t normally very expressive.  Dean wondered if Cas was feeling even an inkling of the pain and grief that he was, wondered if Cas even knew how to feel that deeply.  He doubted it.

            Cas finally shifted his sad gaze away from the grave and focused on Dean.  He cleared his throat and motioned vaguely behind himself toward the lot.  “They’ve all gone.”  His voice was deep, and heavy, and it sounded wrong in that place.

            “I know.”  Dean said, letting his own eyes wander to the parking lot where only the dark outline of his Impala was left parked at the curb.

            Cas shifted uneasily on his feet.  “I told my sister to leave without me.  I didn’t think you’d be in any condition to drive yourself.”  Dean stared at him for a moment, impassive.  “Let me drive you home, Dean.”  Cas clarified, voice almost pleading.

            Dean stared at the other man for a moment, his best friend, the one who had always been there, for him and for Sam.  Shrugging, Dean relented, saying “You can take me out for a drink.”

            Cas shifted uneasily on his feet, his perfectly shined dress shoes crunching on the grass again.  “I’d feel better if I knew you were home safe….”

            “Well, I’m going out for a drink with or without you, man, but if you want to make yourself feel better, then you’re welcome to come with me.  I’m sure there’s plenty of booze for all.”  Then Dean walked past him, and he couldn’t honestly bring himself to care whether or not Cas chose to follow.

            “Wait.”  Cas said.  His voice was softer than usual, almost concerned.  He hurried to catch up and match his steps to Dean’s.  When he drew close, Dean plucked his keys from his pocket and tossed them to Cas, who caught them easily.

             “You’re probably right about the driving,” Dean said, thinking to himself that if he got behind the wheel right now, he was liable to get them both killed tonight.

             It was strange for Dean to slide into the passenger seat of his Baby, and it was even stranger to watch Cas settle awkwardly behind the wheel.  He turned the ignition and the Impala roared to life—the sound normally brought a smile to Dean’s lips, but not tonight.

             “Where do you want to go?”  Cas asked, flashing worried blue eyes at Dean across the seat.

            “Doesn’t matter.  Some place they serve booze.  And I don’t wanna see anyone I know.” 

            “Alright.”  Cas nodded infinitesimally and drove them out of the parking lot.

            They didn’t talk as they drove.  Honestly, there was nothing they needed to say—everything that needed to be said had been discussed days before, and anyway, Cas always knew what Dean was thinking whether he said it or not.  They were funny like that.

            They headed downtown, where bars lined the streets and Dean knew that no one would know him except for the man at his side.  Dean had planned on going home and downing a bottle of whiskey on his own, alone in his bare apartment before passing out.  It sounded perfect, honestly; just about the best remedy he could think of, but there was Cas to consider.  Dean wasn’t surprised he’d stayed behind at the cemetery, and he figured that Cas probably would have checked up on him at home as well.  Better he just tagged along.

            Cas pulled up in front of a dark, crowded bar with a neon sign of a bottle and the word “GIRLS” flashing on the front.  He stared through the windshield at it, almost as if he couldn’t decide whether it was acceptable or not.  He glanced at Dean just for a moment, brows furrowed.

            “This is fine.”  Dean drawled before climbing out of the car, leaving Cas to park it properly.  Dean didn’t wait for him before crossing the dark parking lot.  Still, though, a moment later, he felt Cas enter close behind him—a solid protective presence at Dean’s back.

            The air inside the bar was warm and dank.  Dean could smell alcohol and sweat and cigarette smoke.  Rock music played from an old jukebox in the corner.  The lighting was dim, the place looked grimy, and Dean was darkly pleased.  Yeah, this was just what he needed.

            Dean strode up to the bar and straddled an empty stool gracelessly.  Dean could see his reflection in the dirty mirror that stretched the length of the back of the bar—he was studying his own emotionless face when he saw Cas pull up the stool next to him.  Dean turned his eyes away then, and tapped his hand on the bar.

            The bartender, a large bear of a man, wandered over and asked “What’s it gonna be?”  Dean could barely hear him over the music.

            “Jack.  Straight.  No ice.”  Dean’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears.  The bartender nodded then looked to Cas, who ordered the same.  Dean watched as the bartender poured them each a shot and slid them across the bar.  Dean eyed it wearily.  A shot glass couldn’t hold enough whiskey for him—couldn’t hold much of anything, really.  He lifted it and looked through it for a moment, seeing the whole bar in a dim golden brown, before tilting it back and swallowing the drink down easily.  “Another.”  The bartended slid one more and Dean slammed it back a second later.  “Another.”

            “Whoa, brother, take it easy.”  The man said.

            Dean stared up at him.  “Another.”

            The bartender poured the drink up but continued to stare at Dean with concerned disapproval.  Dean ignored him, drank the shot, then tapped the glass again.  The man huffed but refilled it.  Then he turned away.  Dean held the whiskey between his fingers, but he didn’t drink it.  Instead, he turned his eyes to meet Cas’s concerned gaze.  “What?”  Dean demanded.  Cas said nothing, just continued to stare in his usual way.  “Don’t worry about me, man.  Just let me drink.  I’ll be fine.”  Then, to prove his point, Dean tipped the whiskey back.

            Cas laid his hand on Dean’s arm and leaned forward an inch to get his attention.  “I think you should slow down a little.”

            “Yeah?  Well, I think you should have another.”  Dean clapped him on the back then turned away, eyes scanning the darkness of the bar.  Half-naked women danced in the back and a sleazy-looking older guy danced with a young woman on the small dance floor.

            Behind Dean, the bartender cleared his throat.  When Dean turned back to him, the man pushed another full shot across the bar for him.  Dean tilted his head quizzically and the bartender nodded to the other side of the bar.  “The lady at the end sends her compliments.”  Dean glanced that way and found a curvy brunette in a short skirt, tight shirt, and just a little too much makeup.  She waved seductively and Dean threw her a half-hearted wink before he downed the shot she’d bought for him.  Next to him, Cas sighed with disapproval.

            Dean licked his lips and stood from his spot.  The liquor was just starting to work.  Dean strutted over to the woman and smiled emptily at her.  He bent forward so that his lips barely brushed the tender skin of her ear.  “Wanna dance, sweetheart?”

            Dean led her to the center of the small, grimy dance floor and pulled her close.  She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and canted her hips toward his.  Dean laid his own hands on her hips, dangerously close to her ass, and pulled her closer.  They swayed slowly together.  Dean could feel the woman’s hot breath on his neck and he trailed his hands even lower.  Yeah, maybe a good hard fuck would help him to forget.  Maybe.  For at least a few minutes.

            They danced like that for a long time—Dean wasn’t keeping track, but finally the woman pulled away from Dean with a disgruntled look on her face.  She glanced over his shoulder and frowned, maybe disappointed, maybe pissed off.  He wasn’t sure.  Didn’t care.

            When Dean finally turned around, he wasn’t surprised to find Cas glaring stonily from close by.  Great, so he’d scared the chick away.  Whatever.  Wasn’t like it’d be hard to find someone else in a dive like this.  Dean was busy scanning the shadows for more prospective pick-ups when he felt a firm grip on his arm.

            “Dean,” Cas growled warningly, “Come on.  You’re drunk.”

            Dean snatched his arm free and turned to face Cas.  He poked him hard in the chest.  “Yeah.  But you’re not.”

            “No.”  He murmured.  “Not nearly drunk enough.”  He closed his eyes and sighed.  “Please, Dean, let me take you home.”

            Dean looked at him then, really looked at him—all rumpled clothes, messy hair, and big, sad blue eyes.  Dean chuckled darkly.  “Sure, Cas.  I’m gonna leave here with someone tonight.  Might as well be you.”

           

             

 

                        

            Dean didn’t pay much attention to all the bullshit after that.  Cas got him out of the bar pretty quickly, and herded him back to the Impala, where he helped Dean to buckle in.  Dean was aware of the warm pressure of Cas’s hand on his shoulder to steady him.

            On the drive, Dean tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes—content to watch the lights flicker by through his eyelids.

            By the time they reached Dean’s apartment complex, he felt sick.  It wasn’t like this was the first time Dean had had a few drinks to help with a shitty day, but he felt like he was gonna blow chunks anyway.  Cas laid his hand, warm and solid, against Dean’s back and helped him up the four flights of stairs to his apartment.

            When they finally reached his door, Dean pulled the key out of his pocket and crammed it into the lock awkwardly.  As soon as the door swung open, Dean strode in, leaving the door open behind him.  Cas sighed and followed after him, shutting the door and locking it behind him, because Dean hadn’t bothered.  Dean waltzed across his living room and flung himself down on the couch.

            Cas shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at Dean, eyes shadowed.  “Are you alright?”

            “Yeah, sure.  I’m peachy.”

            Cas huffed a frustrated sigh.  “Fine.  I’ll be going then.”

            Dean grunted and tipped his head back against the couch.  He closed his eyes, and it sort of felt like the room was spinning.  He rubbed a hand over his face and it came away moist with sweat.

            “Are you sure you’re alright?”  Cas asked from somewhere above him.

            “Wait,” Dean mumbled.  “I’m feeling a little out of it.  Probably fall asleep soon.  Wanna help a guy out?”

            Cas sighed heavily but settled himself on the couch next to Dean.  “What is it you need help with?”

            Dean threw his right leg up onto Cas’s lap and pointed drunkenly at his shoe.  “Untie the damn thing?”  Dean cracked an eye open just in time to see Cas roll his eyes impatiently, but the other man complied anyway, even though they both knew Dean was being ridiculous at this point.

            Cas’s hands were warm, gentle, but efficient, and he untied Dean’s laces quickly, and then he slipped the shoe off and dropped it next to the couch.  As soon as he finished, Dean dropped his other foot on Cas’s lap.  He watched as Cas meticulously undid those laces as well and disposed of the dress shoe.

            “Did you need help with anything else?”  Cas asked, voice gentle but tired.  Dean couldn’t think of anything to say, so he kept silent.  Cas sighed and carefully lifted Dean’s feet off his lap and then set them on the couch.  “I’ll check on you tomorrow, Dean.”  Cas stood and looked down at him with big, sad eyes.  “Get some rest.”

            “Wait,” Dean said, standing suddenly on wobbly legs.  His gut twisted at the thought of being alone, of Cas leaving him like everyone else did.  “Stay.”  Dean whispered.  Cas opened his mouth to protest, but Dean moved forward quickly and wrapped his hand around the back of Cas’s neck, pulled him close.  Dean licked his lips before pressing them to Cas’s own slightly chapped ones, effectively silencing his words.  Dean held them there, touching softly for just a moment, before he pulled back.  “Stay.”

            Cas stared at him in shock for a moment before he finally seemed to get his bearings.  “I think it’s best if I go, Dean.  I should….” But then Dean’s mouth was on his again, silencing his excuses.  Dean pulled Cas close and ran his hands up and down his back, before trailing up and twisting his fingers in Cas’s soft, dark hair.  He pulled softly and Cas moaned, opening his mouth slightly.  Dean could feel him giving in.  He shifted his hips just a little bit closer, so that he and Cas could press together, and he felt the other man’s resolve crumble.

            Dean broke the kiss and pulled back slightly so that he could look into Cas’s troubled, lust-darkened eyes.  Dean laid his hands on Cas’s shoulders and began to push off his bulky trench coat and suit jacket.  When Cas realized what Dean was doing, he helped him, shrugging the jackets off and allowing them to fall to the floor behind him.  Then he kicked off his own shoes and let them fall to the floor next to Dean’s.

            They stared at each other for a moment after that, unsure, but close enough to share breath.  And then Dean reached out, wrapped a hand in Cas’s blue tie, and tugged, leading Cas down the hall to his bedroom.  Dean kicked the door open and Cas followed him in.

            Dean let go of Cas’s tie only so that he could yank his own off, and toss it carelessly to the floor.  Cas’s eyes were dark, pupils wide with lust, but he stood there, unmoving, simply watching as Dean methodically began to undress himself.  Dean unbuttoned his shirt with slightly shaky fingers; the room was still spinning, but it wasn’t so bad if he kept his eyes focused on Cas.  After his own shirt was unbuttoned, Dean reached forward and untucked Cas’s, letting his fingers dip under his belt for just a moment.  Dean made quick work of Cas’s shirt and shoved it off of his shoulders to land on Dean’s bedroom floor.  This wasn’t the first time that Dean had seen Cas like this, but it was the first time he’d ever allowed himself to run his hands over the lightly tanned, smooth skin of Cas’s belly, and up to his chest.  He was lean and fit where Dean was more stocky and broad.  Dean never usually allowed himself to think about it, but here and now he could admit an appreciation for Cas’s form.

            Cas’s eyes followed Dean’s movements.  Dean glanced up at his eyes and their gazes held for just a moment—Dean could see a tempest brewing inside of Cas, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about it now.  Dean was busy with his own mess.  “You just gonna stand there?”  Dean taunted.  His smirk was wiped away, though, when Cas surged forward and captured Dean’s lips with his own.  His tongue pressed insistently at Dean’s lips, so Dean opened up to him obligingly.  Cas tasted warm, safe.  Dean didn’t want that.  He wanted rough, dangerous.  He growled at Cas and shoved at his shoulders.  Cas shoved back and Dean toppled back onto his bed.  Cas followed him down, covering Dean with his hot, heavy body.  Cas’s hands and mouth were everywhere, frantic.  He shifted and Dean felt the press of Cas’s cock against his thigh.  The weight of Cas felt so damn good.  Warm and soft and good.  Cas licked a stripe up Dean’s neck and wrapped his hands around Dean’s wrists, pinning them to the bedspread.  God, it felt good.  So good.  The room spun around them, and Dean allowed his eyes to flutter shut.  Yeah, this was what he needed.  Just what he needed.  Maybe Cas would help him to forget….

 

 

 

 

 

            Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, he heaved a deep sigh, and his body relaxed under Cas, going utterly limp.  Cas stopped his frantic kisses and petting and pulled back, studying Dean’s face.  Passed out.

            Cas sighed.  This was probably for the best, though.  At least they hadn’t gotten the chance to do anything _too_ incredibly stupid yet.  Cas let his head fall forward into the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder and he focused on just breathing for a minute, getting his bearings once more.  The air was cold on the bare skin of his back and he felt slightly embarrassed now.  Yeah, definitely good that they hadn’t been able to continue.  He and Dean had almost just fucked.  On the day of Sam’s funeral.  Yeah, like that wouldn’t have caused problems later on.

            Cas pulled back again to study Dean’s face.  The lines of sorrow that had marred Dean’s face for the last week or so had finally smoothed in sleep, and his breathing had grown slow and heavy.  But a light sweat continued to break out on Dean’s forehead.  Cas frowned and held a hand to Dean’s head, shaking his own sadly when he realized that Dean was actually burning up, and it was likely _not_ because of what they’d just done.  Cas bowed his head once more and brushed his lips over Dean’s forehead before he lifted himself off the other man, careful not to wake him from his sleep.

            Cas trudged down the hall toward the bathroom.  When he reached it, the turned the sink faucet on and let cold water pour out into the basin.  He cupped his hands and reached under the tap, filling them up to the brim before splashing the water onto his face.  He stared at himself for a moment and realized that he looked at least ten years older than he was; he was exhausted, and worried for Dean, and filled with his own crushing grief over the loss of Sam.  He sighed, feeling close to defeat, but he knew that he couldn’t give up, couldn’t give in to the sadness yet.  Dean needed him, and whether Dean was willing to ask for help or not, Cas was going to be there at his side to support him, no matter what.

            Cas wet a washcloth and then turned the sink off, then the light, and headed back to Dean’s dark bedroom at the end of the hall.

            Dean was still sprawled on the bed in the way that he had been when Cas had left him, but his brow was furrowed now and his lips turned down slightly in an agitated frown.  Cas sighed, shaking his head, and made quick work of turning down the bedcovers.  It wasn’t an easy job to maneuver Dean under the sheet and blanket, but Cas managed it, despite the dead weight.  Dean was burning up still, so Cas gently laid the washcloth over his forehead.  Dean sighed, then shivered slightly.  Cas tucked the blankets closer around him, then crawled into the bed next to Dean so that he could keep an eye on him throughout the night.


	2. Denial

 

 

_Dean jumped.  He felt himself falling, falling, twirling circles in the darkness, tumbling down, down, down farther into the apparent nothingness that was below and all around him.  He reached out blindly, grappling for something to hold onto, anything to stop him from falling, but there was nothing._

_And then, suddenly, Dean smacked into a cold, hard stone floor.  He was sure that the fall would kill him, but miraculously, he was still able to push himself to his feet.  He was barefoot, wearing a rumpled suit that he vaguely recognized, but he wasn’t sure from where.  Darkness pressed in against him from all sides._

_Dean didn’t know where he was; all he could tell was that it was cold and dark—darker even than the backs of his eyelids—something he hadn’t thought was possible.  He took a deep breath, desperate to steady himself after that nose dive into the abyss.  He stretched his arms out in front of him and took a tentative step forward.  Nothingness.  He took another step, arms wide and reaching.  Each step was one of blind faith, hope that there was_ something _in the darkness, something to keep Dean from falling again._

_Dean searched through the darkness, fingers splayed wide, and eventually his fingers scraped over a cold, solid, rough surface.  A wall.  Maybe…rough-hewn stone.  Dean dragged the pads of his fingers across it.  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kiss it in thanks or move away from it.  It was cold, unnaturally so, like something dead._

_Dean steadied himself, toes cold against the stone floor.  He sprawled his hands across the wall, reaching them as far across as he could, searching for something, anything besides the cold, solid façade.  He began to move, slowly at first, and then more confidently, fingers scrabbling across the surface, searching, searching.  There had to be something here.  People didn’t build walls for nothing.  Not unless there were floors or roofs or windows or doors, or something inside of them!  But Dean wasn’t sure whether he was on the inside or the outside of the wall._

_It seemed like an eternity that Dean searched in the darkness, his fingers desperate and grasping, and then they finally brushed over an emptiness.  It startled him at first, in fact, it horrified him.  He jerked back, desperate to keep hold of something solid.  He swallowed thickly and reached across the emptiness and found, amazingly, that the wall continued on the other side, after a couple feet._

_Dean pulled his arm back and just breathed for a moment, taking stock of himself and his situation.  He pushed gently away from the wall and stepped in front of the emptiness.  Dean clenched his hands then held his arms out in front of him again and took a step forward._

_Light sprang forth.  Torches lining the walls on either side of Dean roared to life, fire consuming the darkness.  He could see what lay ahead of him now—a long tunnel that seemed to go on forever.  Dean strained his eyes, but he could not see the end of it.  He glanced back for a moment—it was unbelievably dark in the emptiness, in the place where he’d fallen._

_Dean turned away from it, shuddering.  He took a tentative step forward into the light of the tunnel.  A chill crept up Dean’s spine.  The torches cast eerie shadows of their fire, and of Dean, against the walls and the floor.  Dean’s ears were filled with the sounds of the sputtering torches, and of his feet shuffling along the floor.  They were the only sounds, amplified in an otherwise silent tunnel—and Dean wondered if they were perhaps the last sounds on a dead Earth._

_Dean kept his eyes focused on the darkness ahead of him, what he presumed was the end of the tunnel.  All tunnels had endings, and Dean was determined to find this one.  He shuffled forward._

_Dean passed the torches slowly, one by one, his steps the speed of a death march.  He was the pall bearer for his own body.  There was nowhere else to go, really—he couldn’t go back, and he was afraid of getting lost in the darkness.  He felt compelled to discover whatever was at the end of the tunnel._

_Another sound filled the tunnel, then, echoing softly off the stone walls.  Hissing.  It was the sound of death, of the fire being extinguished.  And they_ were _going out.  Dean could hear the hissing following close behind him, could see his own shadow creeping up faster from behind him, like a gaunt, hungry dog.  Dean felt his heart slam in his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to move any faster._

_Hisssss…. Two more extinguished.  The lights went out faster, the darkness chasing up close behind Dean.  And then he could see the two at his sides shiver slightly.  As he passed, he heard the echoing, horrible hiss again.  It was catching up to him, the darkness, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be swallowed up by it.  Not again.  He would reach the end before he was swallowed whole._

_Dean felt heavy.  He was tired…so tired.  He longed to lie down and sleep, but the end was so near; it had to be, he could feel it.  Dean knew he’d been travelling for a very long time, but no matter how far he’d gone, the torches still seemed to stretch on forever.  This, what he was doing…it wasn’t working.  He needed to stop.  Just stop.  STOP._

_His feet stopped moving.  A light, chill breeze blew around him, ruffling his hair.  From behind him, he could hear the echoing hiss of the last torch burning out._

_Never had Dean felt anything more menacing, heavy, and dark.  It pressed up close behind him, the darkness, with that final hiss of death.  But Dean refused to move his feet one step further.  The tunnel was endless, ridiculous.  Dean wondered if maybe this was Hell._

_Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself._

_When he blinked his eyes back open, he found himself standing in front of a set of doors.  The doors were tall, reaching up farther than the guttering light from the last remaining torch shone.  They were made of roughly hewn stone, and they looked much heavier than any man could move.  The doors were carved with elaborate, twisting figures of people: young, old, beautiful, grotesque._

_Dean extended a shaking palm toward the carvings.  As his fingers brushed over the cold, rough stone, the doors swung open to reveal a large, circular room with a large raised rectangle at the center.  Something about it drew him, and so Dean didn’t hesitate to step through the door, but the moment he did so, the doors slammed shut behind him._

_Dean took another tentative step into the room, and he could see that the walls were covered in writing.  Dean felt drawn to the wall, so he walked closer, intent on inspecting the markings.  He drew so close that his nose nearly touched the carved stone, close enough that he could feel his own breath rolling back at him._

_Dean frowned.  The markings covered every inch of the wall that he could see, but they weren’t written in any kind of language or script that he knew.  Somehow, though, Dean still understood them.  He raised a hand tentatively to touch one of the words; his hand hovered over the engraving for a moment and he could feel_ power _emanating from the wall, from the word itself.  Dean laid his fingers gently against the engravings, and sounds filled his mind, words that he understood the meanings of, could feel the essences of, but could not pronounce.  He drew back and the sounds faded from his mind.  Those markings covered the entirety of the room._

_Dean finally tore his eyes from the walls and focused his attention on the raised rectangle at the center of the room.  He eyed it cautiously, but took a step toward it nevertheless.  Another.  And another.  He stood next to it now, and took a deep breath, willing himself to bend over to see the top of it.  It was covered in writing as well.  Dean narrowed his eyes and drew closer to read it._

_Dean stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and tumbled to the cold, hard floor.  His heart clenched and his mind stuttered.  No.  No._

_The markings whispered ‘brother’ and ‘one who is loved’ and ‘gone.’  It was absurd.  A lie.  Still, it resonated with something deep inside of Dean.  “No,” Dean whispered, finally, his voice echoing in the still heaviness of the room.  It was impossible.  Sam wasn’t dead.  He wasn’t dead!_

_Dean scrambled up onto his feet again and backed away slowly.  His back hit the wall and he turned, his hands grasping for something to hold onto.  He stood at the doors again, but there were no handles, nothing from this side.  He pushed on the door with all of his strength.  He leaned against it with his full weight.  He rammed it with his shoulder.  Over.  And over.  But the damned thing didn’t budge.  Dean screamed and pounded at the stone with his fists.  “Let me out!  Let me out!  It’s a lie!  A damned lie!”  He hit the stone over and over again, ignoring the pain.  “He’s not dead!  HE’S NOT DEAD!!!”_

_Tears welled in his eyes, and still he screamed.  He continued to hit the walls and throw himself against them.  Red streaks and spatters covered the stone and Dean’s hands and arms.  His fists were bloody ruins.  Still, he beat at the doors.  He had to get out, he couldn’t breathe in here.  The room felt like it was growing smaller, smothering.  He’d claw through the stone if he had to._

_That horrible thing was behind him, that awful lie, pressing closer, breathing down his neck.  The darkness closed in, finally, was going to swallow him whole.  He flung his body at the stone doors one last time, and hit it hard—he shook and his strength gave out, and he slid to the floor, bloody, broken.  “HE’S NOT DEAD!”_

 

 

 

            Cas’s eyes flickered open in the dark room.  He frowned, listening for whatever had woken him.  A second later, Dean whined low in his throat and shuddered on the other side of the bed.  Cas sighed and moved nearer.  Dean’s face was twisted in pain and he was coated with a sheen of sweat.  The washcloth was dry now, and had slipped from his forehead.  Cas laid a hand gently against Dean’s skin and felt that he was still burning with a fever.  He shook his head sadly and retrieved the washcloth, standing with a creak of his weary bones.

            Cas glanced up at the mirror in the bathroom while he was re-wetting the cloth.  He was honest enough with himself that he could admit that the reflection staring back at him woefully looked like hell.

            Dean had been cold and withdrawn since Sam’s accident.  Cas couldn’t blame him.  Since he’d met the Winchesters seven years earlier, he’d known that Sam was the center of Dean’s world.  The brothers shared a bond unlike anything Cas had ever seen before, unlike any relationship that Cas had with his numerous siblings.  Sam’s death had been sudden, tragic, and Cas suspected that Dean had not yet accepted it.  It was something that would likely take Dean a long time to come to terms with, if he ever did.  Since that fateful day, Dean had done his best to push everyone else away, including Cas.  Most people did not know how to respond to Dean; they could not recognize his coldness as soul-deep hurt.  But Cas knew.  And so even though Dean pushed, Cas remained, constant. 

            Dean had refused help with the arrangements—he’d insisted on dealing with all of the details himself.  Cas could do nothing but remain close, supportive.  Dean ignored him, and locked him out.  But still Cas came by the apartment every day to make sure Dean ate and slept.  He did what he could.

            At the service, Dean had refused to speak with anyone and had insisted on going alone, though Cas knew that the empty passenger seat in the Impala probably tore at Dean’s heart each time he glanced at it.

            Cas had loved Sam as well, and his loss tore at Cas like a physical thing.  He felt like a piece of his heart was missing.  But watching Dean’s grief hurt him almost as much—the worst part was knowing that there was nothing he could do to make it better.  Nothing.  All he could do was what he was already doing: stay close to Dean, give him whatever he needed, help him to heal.

            When Cas returned to the bedroom, he found that Dean had kicked his blankets off so that they pooled at his feet.  He lay sprawled, panting, covered in sweat.  Cas pushed Dean’s hair off his forehead and wiped the sweat away with the washcloth.  He resettled the blankets over Dean’s body and then laid back down on his side of the bed.  Dean whined again, and a tear slipped out from underneath his lashes.  Cas moved closer, tentative just for a moment, then wrapped an arm tightly around Dean’s waist and drew him nearer.  This was the only thing he could do for Dean right now.


	3. Anger

 

 

_Dean glanced up from his spot on the floor, eyes hard.  He curled his fingers once, twice.  Clenched his bloody fists.  He pushed himself back to his shaking legs and strode meaningfully back toward the center of the room._

_Dean stared at the stone rectangle again, what he realized now was meant to be a sarcophagus.  His hand hovered above it for a moment before he laid his fingers to the carved stone once more.  The words filled his mind again._

_A thread of doubt wove through Dean’s mind.  Could it be true, then?  Could Sam really be gone…?  He didn’t care, Dean realized.  He didn’t care whether this message was true or not.  The words filled him with a burning, sickening rage._

_Dean withdrew his hand carefully and marched back toward the doors.  His placed his palms flat against them, almost delicate, with the concentration it took to maintain his calm.  This time, he did not will them to move; he did not beg aloud for them to open.  He simply held onto them and tried to keep himself from bursting into a million pieces.  Inside, he was a storm.  His rage was a gale whipping at his self-control and it was gaining strength.  It was coming…_

_Dean’s fingertips curled slightly, clawing against the stone.  He raised his head to stare at his bloody hands and he felt the rage swirl inside of him, pressing at the edges of his mind, begging to be let out._

_Dean opened his mouth to take in a shuddering breath, but the moment he parted his lips, a shaking, broken scream ripped from his lungs—his whole chest rattled with the force of it, his body convulsed.  It shook the room: the stones rumbled and cracked.  The doors fell away—the walls and the floor did too—and Dean was falling again._

_This time, Dean didn’t care where he landed.  He hoped it was Hell.  He hoped it was the worst fucking place imaginable, because right now, that was the only place that could hold something like him.  It was the only place where his rage could belong.  He wanted to crack bones and tear flesh.  He wanted to make someone bleed for this.  He hoped that wherever he ended up, it hurt._

_This time, Dean landed on his feet, and everything else rushed to meet him.  Cold, shivering lights illuminated this new space.  And he was not alone._

_He appeared to be in a courtroom of sorts.  Two figures sat upon simply carved thrones at the front of the room.  One of them was a man with a long, gaunt face, dark hair and dark eyes.  He was dressed simply in a dark suit and bore a simple white ring upon one of his fingers.  The other was a dark haired, dark-eyed woman dressed simply in a dark shirt and pants.  They both looked down upon Dean from a raised platform, their eyes deep, endless, unfathomable.  All around the edges of the room, dark, faceless figures crowded close._

_Dean had the distinct feeling that the faceless crowd was judging him, but the two at the front were not.  There was no emotion in their dark eyes, and they looked utterly immovable.  Their impassivity fueled the rage still burning hot in Dean’s belly.  He clenched his fists, took one step toward the platform, and growled “Where is he?”  His voice echoed in the close chamber.  “I have come for my brother, and I am_ not _leaving here without him.”_

_The man and woman stared back at him, utterly unmoved.  “He is gone,” The man said, voice hollow.  “Beyond your reach,” the woman added._

_“No,” Dean hissed, and the word shook the air around him.  “I refuse to accept that.  I will destroy whichever one of you sons of bitches took him from me!”_

_The faceless shadows moved toward him then, grasping with cold black fingers, wrapping themselves around him to halt him, drag him down.  “No!”  Dean screamed, and the darkness dipped into his mouth, slid over his eyes.  “No!”  He lashed out, swinging his fists for all he was worth.  Biting, kicking, throwing his whole body against the swarm of darkness.  He thrashed wildly, determined not to let it end this way.  “No!”_

 

 

 

 

            Cas jerked awake, cheek bruised and stinging.  He just barely managed to dodge another of Dean’s fists.  “ _Dean!_ ” Cas gasped, rolling away from his friend.  Dean swung his arms and kicked, muttering under his breath.  He tore at the blankets, flinging them around, and gritted his teeth together ferociously.  Cas took a moment to compose himself then leapt forward to grasp at Dean’s arms.  The blanket slid away and Dean began to shake. “Dean!”  Cas begged, shaking his friend.  Dean growled and lurched forward, snapping his teeth just an inch from Cas’s face.  Cas held on tight, though, wrapped his whole body around Dean’s.  “Dean, please!  It’s me,” Cas shouted.  “It’s me!  Cas!”  He heaved a ragged breath, holding back his own tears.  “Dean, _please!_ ”  And then, just as suddenly as he’d grown violent, Dean’s body sagged in Cas’s arms.

 


	4. Bargaining

 

 

_Dean’s rage drained from his body and left him feeling empty.  His whole body went limp, and only then did the shadow hands melt away from him.  His clothes were rumpled now, hair messed.  Eyes wild, chest heaving.  Each ragged breath echoed in the chamber._

_Dean lifted his eyes to stare at the dais again where the man and woman sat, still unmoved by his violence.  “I want him back,” Dean murmured, voice shaking.  “I can’t go on without him… I don’t want to.  So please…I’m not leaving here without him.”_

_They continued to stare at him and Dean knew, he_ understood.  _These…things, this place… it was bigger than him, bigger than Sam.  They did not care for his desperation, or his anger, or his sadness.  He and Sam were nothing to these creatures.  Still, Dean couldn’t turn around, couldn’t go back without his brother.  He cleared his throat, leveled his gaze upon the man and woman, and said “Give him back.  Take me instead.”_

 

 

 

 

            Dean’s body relaxed and he released a deep sigh.  Cas finally allowed his grip to ease and he breathed his own sigh of relief.  Dean’s brow smoothed and the furious frown lines melted away, leaving him looking young and vulnerable suddenly.

            Cas tipped his head forward to rest against Dean’s shoulder.  “I’m here.”  He whispered against Dean’s heated skin.  “I know it might not mean much, Dean, but I’m here for you.”

           


	5. Depression

 

 

_He was surrounded, overcome, filled with it.  Darkness.  It was all around him, and even inside of him.  Dark thoughts filled his mind.  His soul was turning black.  His heart was dark with sorrow and misery unthinkable.  His whole body was shrouded in it.  It was everywhere, all around him.  There was no escape.  He breathed it in._

_He was bound to darkness by invisible chains.  The darkness pressed in on him, heavy.  Dean wanted to sink under its weight.  He was tired.  So tired.  He never wanted to move again._

_Dean moved his arms half-heartedly against the chains.  There was no escaping this prison.  He didn’t want to.  He knew that there was nothing left for him out there.  He couldn’t face the light of day, couldn’t go on living his life knowing that Sam was gone, dead.  It was better this way._

_The darkness worked its way inside of him and settled there, heavy._

 

 

 

            The room was silent.  Dean and Cas lay tangled together, utterly exhausted.  Cas was unaware that Dean was dreaming of darkness, that even in sleep he could not escape his grief.  Dean was unaware that just next to him, Cas was dreaming of him.


	6. Acceptance

 

 

_Dean bowed his head in the darkness.  He felt like he’d been there forever._

_Sam was gone._

_The reality of it did not hit Dean like a ton of bricks; it did not knock the wind out of him; it did not send him into another rage.  It crept up on him slowly, rising up to the top of his consciousness.  It floated into his mind softly, like a leaf upon water—it didn’t even create ripples.  Dean imagined himself as a lone figure standing on the bank of a river that extended forever.  He watched that leaf slowly meander around a bend.  He bent and picked it up, held it close.  Closed his eyes._

_When he opened them, darkness still surrounded him.  He was alone.  Sam was gone.  He wasn’t coming back.  He was really gone._

_And then suddenly, Dean became aware of the soft, warm grip of someone’s fingers on his skin.  He could feel the warm heaviness of someone’s arm draped around him.  And he realized that no…he was_ not _completely alone._

 

 

            Dean opened his eyes.

            His bedroom was flooded in the dull gray of twilight.  He shifted slightly and rolled his eyes to the side.  Cas lay next to him, his arm draped protectively over Dean, pulling their bodies flush.  Cas’s face was close enough that Dean could feel the soft exhale of each breath.  His face was relaxed in sleep, but the worry lines on his forehead were carved deep enough that even sleep could not brush them away.  Dean knew many of those were because of him.

            Despite everything that had happened, Dean could still remember the night before.  He remembered the funeral, and getting drunk at that sleazy dive bar.  Remembered taunting Cas and then kissing him, undressing him, begging him to stay.

            Everything Dean had dreamed…it had felt so real, it had felt like an eternity.  But here he was, alive, at home in his own bed.  The day after his brother’s funeral.  Wrapped in Cas’s arms.

            Tears welled in Dean’s eyes, and he allowed them to come.  They dripped slowly from his lashes and down his cheeks.  His chest constricted with the pain inside his heart, and he choked on a sob.  He shuddered.  He hadn’t cried since the night of the accident.

            Suddenly, Cas’s arm tightened around him and turned him.  Dean went willingly, allowing Cas to pull their bodies closer.  Dean tucked his face against Cas’s bare chest and continued to cry.  Cas stroked Dean’s back and laid a gentle kiss to the top of his head.  “I’m here, Dean,” he murmured in a sleep-scratchy voice.  “I’m here for you.”

            Dean let himself cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for putting you all through that. Normally I don't write things with sad endings, but this idea sort of latched on and wouldn't let go. I'd love to hear your comments!


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